“Don't worry, darling,” Oscar oozes, infuriating me even further. “We're not such monsters that we need you to tell us the basic rules of morality. No kids, no dogs. Don't worry: there are other ways to make pigs squeal.” Oscar picks up a photo of Eric and his father next, examining it carefully before turning it over. He removes the velvet backing and extracts the photo, folding it and sliding it into the front pocket of his suit. “How about the old man? Any qualms about taking him out with the trash?”

I think about Eric's father, Todd, smiling as he handed me a pink bikini and then sat down by the poolside to watch me swim, eyes hungry, tongue running across his lower lip.

“I don't care what happens to him,” I say, shaking my head. “He never touched me, but he might as well have. He knows his son's proclivities and has no qualms about paying for them.”

Oscar smirks at me, turning and heading purposely in the direction of a decorative bookshelf. Its shelves are covered with pieces of African art, a giraffe carved from wood here, a metal elephant there. Eric thinks of himself as a white savior, heading to other countries to 'save' people who don't need saving. Knowing what I know about him now, I'm guessing he does a hell of a lot more than just virtue signaling.

“What are you doing?” I ask as Oscar digs his inked fingers beneath the edges of the bookcase, swinging it open toward us and revealing a hidden room. My mouth drops open, but Oscar just smiles at me.

“Have you ever seen a bookcase with hinges?” he asks, cocking a brow before continuing inside. As soon as I get close to the opening, I know there are going to be things in there I don't like.

“It's a pleasure dungeon,” he adds, and I just shake my head.

“No,” I growl back, feeling my skin crawl. “This is a torture chamber.”

Oscar doesn't say anything, moving into the room to look at the devices and their leather straps, their handcuffs, their ball gags. It's basically a BDSM paradise, but one where the participants have no say.

I vomit. For the second time in a week.

I don't mean to, it just happens.

Oscar doesn't look very sympathetic about it, wrinkling his nose slightly in disgust as I turn away from the smell.

“Don’t clean that up; leave it for Eric to wonder about,” he tells me, moving further into the room and letting his long fingers play across a Saint Andrew’s Cross, a sex bench, a wall covered in handcuffs. There are cameras everywhere, but none of them seem to be on; their wicked eyes are dark and shrouded. Eric doesn’t just rape girls in here; he films it.

I gag again, but nothing comes up, so I spit on Eric’s bedspread and swipe my arm across my lips. The further Vic digs his claws into me, the more my numbness, my shield against the world, gives way. And the further I get into my list, the more wicked my reality becomes. It’s no surprise that I’ve been vomiting lately. Over the Thing’s video. Over Eric’s torture chamber. My body is full of wickedness and hate, and it’s only natural that I should purge.

Without a second thought, I move into the room and shove the cross over. It crashes into the floor, denting the shiny, dark wood planks and splintering in several places. Oscar raises a brow and turns back to look at me, crossing his arms over his chest. Panting, I start in on the bench, pushing it on its side and then yanking open a black cabinet on the wall. Inside, there are whips, chains, belts, dildos, all manner of filth and fury. I grab a knife that’s stained with blood and try not to think about the things it’s been used for—or the way it might’ve been used on me, if given the chance.

Tears are streaming down my face as I plunge the knife into the cushioned surface of the upturned bench, rending the leather to shreds, turning the room white with fluff. I don’t stop there, emptying the cabinet and throwing everything on the floor. I’m not even thinking at that point; I’m reacting.

Oscar says nothing, does nothing, just simply stands there studying me as I bare myself to him in a way I never meant to. He’s seeing the raw, unedited side of me and I find the reality of that terrifying. I’m pretty sure Vic sent us here together to, like, make us bond or some stupid shit. He’s worried that we hate each other; I’m worried that he’s right.

“Are you quite finished?” Oscar asks, lifting a delicate brow after I slump to my knees in the center of the ruined room. I can barely see the destruction in front of me. Instead, all I can see are memories, memories of Pen’s face after she stepped out of Eric’s room one night. Memories of her sad smile as she ushered me back to bed.

It was my fault that we came here, a place arguably worse than home.

I had no idea how bad Eric Kushner was, no fucking idea.

“I want to kill him,” I say, looking up at Oscar. He doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, he unzips his pants and my eyes go wide. If he seriously thinks something sexual is happening between us in this disgusting hellhole of a room, I may very well take the knife that’s still clutched in my hands and cut his dick off.

So … the reason nothing sexual could happen between you is because of the setting, Bernie? And not because he hates you, and you hate him?

Hate sex is pretty amazing though, right?

Instead of propositioning me, Oscar turns and pisses all over the wall. You wouldn’t think someone could look arrogant or sexy taking a piss, but somehow, in his suit and tattoos, he does. His obvious disrespect and hatred for Eric doesn’t hurt either.

My eyes find his fingers, holding his cock, and it’s impossible to miss the tattoos on it.

An inked cock. A pierced cock.

Huh.

When he’s finished, Oscar fixes his pants, and then retreats to the attached restroom to wash his hands.

“Let’s burn it down,” I say, after shoving to my feet and stumbling over to the doorway. At this point, I’d gladly do just that—with both Eric and his father inside—and then fuck Oscar in the ashes. It takes me a minute to realize the significance of that thought. Not the burning Eric and his dad alive part, but the fucking Oscar part.

“In good time, Bernadette,” he tells me, lathering his hands up with careful efficiency and then drying them on a nearby hand towel. “In good time.”

Oscar turns back toward me, studying me like he's never seen me before, and then proceeds to breeze past me and down the hall. I wander after him, lost in a daze. As I walk, I break things. A vase, a framed picture, a stabbed oil painting. I don't steal anything though. I want Eric to know that the motive here wasn't theft. Besides, I don't want anything from this place. Every item in here is tainted goods.

We hit up every room, and as we go, Oscar collects a few things here and there.

Once we're done, we head right back out the front door, and I watch as Oscar locks the house up tight. Instead of getting on the bike however, he opens one of the saddlebags and pulls out two cans of red spray paint. Across the street, one of the neighbors is mowing their lawn and watching us curiously.

“Leave a message,” Oscar tells me, nodding his head and shaking up the cans in his hands before passing one over to me. I take it from him, studying the color printed on the label. Violently Red. Appropriate. “Something that'll make him think twice about reporting the break-in.”

It only takes me a second to figure it out.

I take the top off the can and hand it over to Oscar, stepping up to the pristine white of the garage door and starting on the first word. He waits patiently behind me, watching as I leave my dark mark in the heart of suburbia.

“Hey!” the neighbor calls, moving across the street, his overalls covered in grass. “What the hell are you kids doing? Knock that off.” Oscar reaches into his jacket and pulls out his revolver, drawing the hammer back before pointing it at the man. He glances lazily in his direction.

“Be quiet and bear witness,” he tells him as the man's eyes go wide. I finish off the first can and trade Oscar for the full one. When I'm finished, I step back to examine my handiwork. “Read it aloud for us,” Oscar muses, tilting his head to one side.

“I …” the man starts, his voice quivering. As soon as we're done here, he's going to call the cops, most definitely. Guess that puts a bit of a wrench into our plans. I decide I don't give a shit. “I … I fuck …” the man continues, choking on the awful words.

“I'm getting impatient,” Oscar purrs, pushing the gun against the side of the man's head. “Say it.”

“Kids,” the man chokes out, falling to his knees in the grass. Oscar puts the gun away and nods briskly.

“Before you call the police, think about me coming back to your house and burning it to the ground with you inside of it. Otherwise, we have no qualms with you, just your pedophile neighbor. Something to think about.” Oscar chucks the empty spray cans into the saddlebag, closes it, and pulls the key from his pocket.

We climb onto the bike together and take off.

Oscar offers me the first small kindness he's ever granted by pretending he doesn't see me cry.

“How did it go today?” Vic asks, standing outside the front door to Aaron's place, his big arms crossed over his broad chest. His ebon eyes track my every movement, taking me in, absorbing me. We just stare at each other, and it becomes obvious that fighting this attraction between us isn't going to work. I can't just stand here and pretend like I don't want to forgive him for the things he's done.

“Why did you send us together?” I ask him as Oscar pauses beside me. He smells like cinnamon, something I never expected from him. That's a warm, homey sort of smell, and Oscar Montauk is anything but warm and homey. “You know how we feel about each other.”

Victor just stares down at me, chewing on a piece of gum, and looking at me like he'd very much like to throw me against the wall and ravage me. I almost wish he would. I just … it's only been a week since the Halloween party. One week since I saw the video. Since Vic told me he was the only one who wanted me to be a part of Havoc. One fucking week since he told me that the Kali thing was more for my ‘benefit’ than hers.